To Kill A Mockingjay
by SouthKentishTown
Summary: Several years after the fall of both Coin and the Capitol, all is still not well in Panem. But when a final Hunger Games is decided to suppress the angry uprisings, can Kyria Thrice, daughter of the former enforcer of the Hunger Games, survive through the turbulent times?
1. Chapter 1

PROLOGUE

The room still smelt of roses. Not the presence of the butcher, the baker or the candlestick maker could change that. Even the grimy, unwashed, coal dusted stench of stale alcohol that drifted off District 12's Haymitch Abernathy could smother it. And Paylor couldn't stand it. But she couldn't get rid of it either. So she contented herself with having her own genetically altered lily poking innocuously out of her top pocket, just under her medal of victory.

Two rows of medals were the only things that decorated her ordinarily plain, black uniform - Two orders of Coin, an order of District 8, two orders of the Winter Revolution and ribbon medals for the rebellion of District 8, the fall of Panem and the Capture of the Capitol. Above them all sat the gold-leaf red enamelled Order of the Mockingjay.

The First General Secretary's eyes narrowed as they darted around the stubbornly elegant lines of the former President Snows office. Not at all to her taste. But necessary, the only place to hold anything not quite, sanguine, enough to make it to the Presidium. Just 13 representatives for 13 districts, her Secretary of Communications, the General Field Marshal and her new head of the CCRA. Whose name she couldn't remember. But who looked dangerous none the less. All wore the starched, fresh-pressed uniforms of their own district, from District 1's cold silvery grey to District 13's uncompromising black. And all had a companion.

In the days since the revolution, there had certainly been some, misgivings. People had gone missing, true. But it was all for the good of the State. Yes, for the good of the State. First General Secretary Paylor gazed round at them nonchalantly. Yes. Yes indeed. She had them all where she wanted them. Now all she would have to do was to get them to bite. She took a cigarette from its case and lit it with a sharp flick of her lighter. And she paced, still observing them. Not one said a single word.

"Soldiers." The term had stuck since the revolution. "Brothers, and Sisters, in arms. What you hear of today, shall change the course of Panem's history." Their eyes begin to glow with revolutionary fervour. She smiled grimly. They'd had their carrot. Now it was time to introduce the stick.

"But, where has there been failure, in achieving our glorious ideals?" Confusion. "Why do we still suffer setbacks where there should be achievements? Why do we still have to endure the sheer ignominy of District 2's struggles? Who is responsible for such shortcomings, soldiers? Who is responsible?" Her voice had turned deadly soft, dangerously so. The table remained silent, respectfully. To speak now would be to denounce an entire district and to destroy an entire reputation. Killing two Mockingjays with one stone.

"There is only one way to avoid failing what we have spent years struggling to achieve, we, the Presidium of Panem shall fail in securing the safety and security of the State. There will be no second chances! If there is anyone who sees themselves fit to address these shortcomings alongside me, soldiers, they must stand up to take the mantle of responsibility. And for those who do not feel the need to join in the ongoing struggle for the protection of the State, there will be trouble. Punishments will be meted out. There will be certain, displeasure." Paylor fell silent. Observing each delegate's reaction to the officialised lashing they'd just received.

With shaking hands, District 5's Vasko lit a fat cigar. District 9's Brenna reached nervously toward her inside pocket. Even Haymitch seemed to snap out of his liquor induced stupor enough to look startled. Only two seemed unyielding. Her new head of security and District 2's Gale Hawthorne.

Everyone knew his story, former lover of the Mockingjay, spurned because of her affections for Peeta, destined to be kept away from her. But in Paylor's mind, separation wasn't necessarily a bad thing. He dwarfed the majority of the delegates, his dark hair and olive skin standing out against the taut, pale faces of the others. His eyes were sharp, eagled grey, and almost permanently narrowed in some sort of fierce disapproval. There was a cruel, arrogant slant to his features, condemning anyone who even tried to usurp his position. He was District 12 originally, of course, but his ingenuity and resourcefulness had seen him hop up the ladder to a more comfortable spot as a delegate for District 2. Handsome, Paylor supposed, smartly dressed, and with a penchant for more than a few mistresses wherever he went. And, if necessary, that would be his downfall. But the last thing she needed was to cause another scandal.

She gave a short hiss of smoke, and inhaled deeply. Breathing in the grass and gunpowder smell of District 8. No time to waste. She drew the cigarette from her lips and shed the ash into the glass ashtray. There was a soft fizz of fire on glass. "Soldiers, I pray you did not think you were so removed from the harsh reality of Panem that you were beyond criticism. We should all have been expecting this, it was only a matter of time before our own counter-revolutionary laziness caught up with us, and now, unless we act, we shall pay for it. So let us get down to business." Her tone was brusque, clipped. No smiles or voices answered her. Just the nervous reactions of 16 delegates.

"Soldier Hawthorne. I presume that your District has not been proving too much for you lately." It was a thinly disguised sneer, a provocation. District 2 had been one of the last to surrender, and Gale was the youngest, though by no means least experienced, delegate. But he would react, he couldn't help himself. It was his nature. "Not at all, General Secretary."

"First, General Secretary." Her new head of the CCRA corrected him primly. Paylor half concealed a scowl. She too had planned to reprimand him for his loose talking. But there was no time for nuances. She gave a sneer.

"First General Secretary," Gale continued, "While I myself have experienced no troubles surrounding my District." He emphasised the 'my' with a smug smile. "I do believe there have been several indiscretions concerning Vasko in District 5. Vasko?" Vasko's pale face dropped a shade.

Sweat began to bead. He dabbed his face nervously with his handkerchief, fat cigar shedding ash onto the carpet. "Not indiscretions, First General Secretary, just a small slip-up…"

"Small?" Gail was enjoying this.

"A slip-up, concerning the…" The next set of words came out as a badly organised jumble of English.

"Concerning, what? Vasko." Paylor this time.

"The peacekeepers."

"The what, Vasko?"

"The peacekeepers, First General Secretary! There was a slight slip-up involving some radicals and peacekeepers at the Olsmarsh Power Station, nothing more!"

"Who Vasko, who was it?"

"Just some former peacekeepers," He was practically pleading now. Or as close as one could get to pleading and still remain dispassionate. "Headed by Jay Renault."

Silence. In any other place, the gossip would have deafened the sound of the name. Jay Renault. He'd been causing trouble for a while now, slinking through the shadows, stealing, spitting in the face of the state. It was time to bring him down a peg or two. Paylor smiled then, an idea dawning on her. It was time to bring them all down a peg or two.

"Brothers and Sisters," the table grew cautious at the sudden warmth of her tone. "I do believe I hold to me the solution to Panem's problems. Even the mightiest tree has an axe ready at its foot, and we must be the ones to remove that axe from our roots, this thorn from our sides. Soldiers, we must crush these, radicals. We must shield the people of Panem, who trust in us to defend them from their own revolutionary zeal. We must protect the State!"

She was shouting now. The whole table began to buzz, to simmer inwardly. "Soldiers, I propose to you, the 76th Hunger games." There was an abrupt silence. Another Hunger games? Disbelief seemed to be a running theme through this meeting.

"No."

She turned then. "Haymitch, these radicals are a threat not only to us, but to the people of Panem. Do you not remember the night the Capitol burned? The execution of President Snow? Was it not you who voted alongside the Mockingjay to hold another Hunger games in Coin's honour?"

Their reserve condemned him. Yes he had voted for another Hunger games, but that had been another time, another place. Another leader. "First General Secretary, it doesn't seem right, what about…?"

"What about the civilians, Haymitch? What about the State?"

He fell quiet. She nodded sharply at her new head of the CCRA.

"So are we all agreed?"

They nodded waveringly. "Plutarch?" Her secretary of communications could scarcely conceal the gross depth of his excitement, the twisted smile that writhed on his lips. The Head Gamemaker was coming out in him. His head twitched in an edgy nod. She lifted the receiver.

"Bring it in." There was a sharp rap on the door. A short, red haired Avox slipped in through the door, laying a battered metal casket in front of Paylor, before leaving, door pulled tightly shut behind him. There was a low hiss of air in the seal. The box was battered, smeared with the countless fat fingers of the old regime, but on top, unmistakeable against the black sheen, was the gold logo of the Capitol. Underneath, the words '_esuritio ludicrum' ._

_Hunger Games. She lifted the lid. File upon file, each one hand typed upon vellum, each one stamped with the gold eagle brand of the Capitol, each one signed by six signatories. Six, very dead, signatories. She withdrew a single file. A single file branded, 'Terms of the Games.' She looked up at the expectant faces of 16 delegates, and wrote across the top of the page. Matter of State Security._

"The proposal of the 76th, and final Hunger Games, against 22 enemies of the State for crimes against the great State of Panem. The final solution."

She scrawled underneath. _For the good of the State. First General Secretary L. Paylor_

District 1. District 2. _For the benefit of the State. G. Hawthorne_

District 3. District 4. District 5. Vasko examined it briefly, his eyes rising to meet Paylor's. Without looking down, he scribbled _For the State. I. Vasko_

District 6. District 7. District 8. District 9. District 10. District 11. District 12. Haymitch hesitated, the ink pen hovering just above the paper. The rest of the delegates' eyes bored into him. _For Panem. _

Head of communications. Marshal of the Army. Her new head of the CCRA didn't even bother to look as she signed, liquid fate pouring out of the nib of the same gold fountain pen that signed every paper before it. Be it death warrant, or not. Paylor's eyes lit up. They'd just sealed the fate of 22 counter-revolutionaries in one afternoon. Not bad for a day's work.

Her new head of the CCRA stood up then. They turned to her, watching, waiting to see what she would do. "First General Secretary." Her accent was bizarre, high-pitched and lilting, her vowels seemed odd, her tone clipped, hissing her s' and rising with her words. "I do have one recommendation for this plan."

"Speak it then."

"We make Katniss Everdeen a mentor."


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER I

I could count the ways I hated my father before breakfast, on one hand, with little to no help from my Avox, Damien. 10 years was a long time, long enough to practice my little recital till it gleamed. I do it out of principle, out of habit, if not anything else. I count them on my left hand, yanking each finger back as I do until they protest. Four points are my own. The fifth isn't. I linger on the last. It gives me time for my other favourite morning ritual. Counting the ways I hate the great state of Panem.

From across the room, Damien watches me, wary. He isn't my first Avox. And, at the rate I'm going, he's unlikely to be the last. 7 Avoxes in 10 years. Not bad going for someone considered irrelevant. He's waiting to see what I'll do. Watching, and waiting. It's all he can do. Then I feel them. Boring into the back of my head, daring me to do something stupid, are a second set of eyes. Cold, hard, cruel eyes. Grey eyes. His eyes. Waiting for me to finish.

"…because he is a traitor to the great state of Panem." I finish. My voice doesn't falter, but deepens, low and deadly. Wouldn't want him to think I was easy prey. There is a long, drawn out hiss of air rushing into the room. The metallic click as the door slides back and the faint squelch as the lock re-engages. And then the soft, deliberate tread of brogues, heels clicking on the Rehabilitation centre floor.

"Still not interested Hawthorne." I keep my voice flat, uncompromising. He quickly cuts me off.

"I can tell exactly what's going through your mind, Thrice." I feel his hands clasp my shoulders, hard. "And I have much more, interesting, news for you than your imminent surrender." He bends down, his hot breath tickling the back of my ear. "Albeit less, exciting." I feel bile rise in my throat. The bastard actually thinks he can win me over. I ball my hands in to tight fists. My knuckles burn white under the pressure. Damien gives a low grunt. Instead of drawing back, Hawthorne lifts a hand up. And presses a kiss to my cheek. "You're still losing." That's it! I turn, jumping to my feet, and the chair clatters to the floor. I swing my fist at him. He catches it with ease.

"Calm down Thrice. That's an order." I glare at him, narrowing my eyes. He twists my fist. A sharp flash of pain shoots up my arm. His grey eyes mock me. "You should wait until you hear the good news. In fact, you're about to find yourself rather in demand." His smile widens. I dread the answer. "You see, by the grace of our great Panem, we're due to have another Hunger Games."

I'm in shock. My features go through the motions. My eyes widen, my mouth opens and closes, but no words come out. He smiles triumphantly. "My offer looks a little more tempting now, doesn't it?"

"But, how?"

"22 tributes from eleven districts, rebels, troublemakers, _children of the old regime_... The usual." He doesn't need to tell me about District 12. Their 'troublemakers' were obliterated back in Capitol days, along with most of the rest of District 12. "It'll be fair, sure. A whole glass reaping ball for you and Miss Hesse."

Oh God. I hadn't thought of that. The only two _eligible female _tributes in District 2 were me, and Marilla Hesse. That gave me a 50:50 chance of ending up in the arena. "You have 4 hours, Reaping begins at 12 sharp." He shrugs. But his grin doesn't move. "Your choice." And he leaves. The room seals again.

He's right. All this time, waiting, and waiting to be told I could leave. And now there was an escape route. Just not the one I was hoping for. For 10 years, 10 years, I have sat in at least one of these rooms. Suddenly, these 10 years don't seem so long. 10 years ago, I would've been about to turn eight, too naïve, too young to do anything but watch when the rebels came.

There were hordes of them. Never in my wildest imaginations had I ever seen so many people. Their faces were twisted in grim grimaces. My memory of the day is broken, fractured, into little pieces that I can still make sense of. The roar of an avalanche in the distance. The echo of gunfire, growing closer, closer. Peacekeepers running. My mother screaming at us, that we had to get out, her bright blue hair twitching in some manic hysteria. Her thrusting me into the arms of my Avox, Melusine. My brothers' faces. Fletch's, twisted with determination. Morty's blank and shocked.

We ran. The pavement cracked and ruptured under our bare feet. To the only place we thought safe. The Justice Building. Marble and glass, arcing out of the main square, its head breaking out of the concrete pavement. The fighting had ravaged it, its tip hung limply, held only together by steel string and sheer willpower. But it's the only place we've got. And it's there, in the mayor's office, we watch the Nut fall.

That part of my memory is clear enough. People running. People screaming. My father appeared, dishevelled, from a door in the base of the mountain, his plumed cap hanging limply off his head. It doesn't matter; they all knew who he was. They caught him pretty quick. A tall, olive skinned, dark haired stranger approached him. The sunset bathed them in a bloody glow. I knew what was going to happen. Melusine didn't even bother to cover my eyes. We both knew. The man cocked his gun, and shot him. Straight through his head. And Snow's faithful hound was dead.

The stranger turned then, as if he felt us watching him. His grey eyes glared at me, boring through my head. I didn't learn his name until later. Hawthorne. Gale, bloody, Hawthorne. He gestured at the building. Downstairs, there was a clatter of furniture hastily flung aside, the fizz of a fuse lit. The world trembled, there was an almighty bang as the door was thrown off its hinges. The hoarse voices that hollered for back-up were quickly overwhelmed.

Melusine thrust me behind her. The door quivered. And bowed inwards. She couldn't scream. She was an Avox. But the sound she made was much worse. A gargling, raspy wheeze. And they stabbed her. They stabbed her 10 times. It was my turn to scream. They were coming closer, closer. Their nostrils flared, their eyes narrowed and bulged.

I panicked, and threw myself out the window. Straight onto a mattress, and straight into the clutches of the great state of Panem. And of Gale Hawthorne, watching me fall onto that mattress, smiling that grim, bitter smile of his.

Sometimes, when it is late at night, and I can't sleep, I can feel their eyes still leering at me from the shadows, their rough hands grasping at me. In the cruellest sense of irony, I practically owe my life as I know it to Gale Hawthorne, or, at least my innocence. Which half explains why he is so damn keen to be the one who takes it away from me.

I pause. His offer. Yes. 4 hours to decide whether or not I want to end up as one of Hawthorne's 'girls'. Or rather whether or not I want to survive the oncoming weeks.

Marilla Hesse was only 4 when the rebels took over, caught as her parents attempted to smuggle her across the District borders, to where, I still wasn't sure. She'd proceeded to spend these 10 years blossoming into a sullen, washed-out girl. Which still leaves her further up the social ladder than me.

I try to think, to clear my mind from distractions, but nothing comes. Decision wise, it's black and white, her or me. Morally, though, I'm screwed. There's nothing even remotely morally right about handing over a young, if somewhat petulant, girl to a self-confessed 'professional philanthropist'.

Another Avox arrives, slipping in through the hissing glass door with a dress piled in her arms. It's all for show. They're liars, all of them. They're no better than the Capitol, this all exists for the exact same reason it did before. To remind everybody of their place. To keep everyone in line. For the benefit, and for the glory, of the great State of Panem. My mouth twists into a wry smile as I watch her deposit the clothes in my bathroom, then retreat back outside with a wary look.

Her name is Nasia. And she was, at one point in time, my friend. Now she just watches me, mistrustfully and angrily, both of us knowing full well the reason why one of us talks and the other doesn't, why one of us is captive, and the other is almost free.

I glare at her. She returns it in kind. _'Judas.' _We think in unison.

I shower in an empty communal shower block, though it's a long time since it's actually been communal. When they first cooped us up, it was hard to move through the remnants of the old regime, now, it's silent. Everyone has left. Gale Hawthorne has either assimilated them, or assassinated them.

I scrub as hard as I can with the rough ended soap, attempting to take the dirt out from under my skin, the circles out from under my eyes. I just succeed in turning myself a rather questionable shade of pink. From the veil of steam, Nasia reappears. She gives me nothing but the grace of a contemptuous smirk, and immediately starts working over me with soap. Rougher soap. Soap with the texture of fresh sandpaper. And she relishes in my discomfort.

I bite my lip, holding back a sarcastic retort, trying not to think of the ex-friend at my feet. Even when she's finished, she avoids my eyes. Which suits me just fine.

Everything in here is rough, hard-edged and utilitarian, even the towels. It's certainly nothing like what it used to be, but then, I doubt anything here is like what it used to be. Nasia hands me my dress, and I yank it on over my head, taking no heed of her tongue-less cluck of disapproval.

The dress is clearly meant to be ironic. It's old style, Capitol style, with a high empire waistline that clenches tight around my body, uncomfortably tight. The top half is ruffled, v-neck, with dainty shell buttons that lead to the belt around my waist. It's also flower-print. And I hate flower-print. The bottom is black, fortunately, and flares outwards, finishing just above my knee. She tears at me hair, forcefully pulling at it and brushing it into low side French braid before pinning in some faux orchids, gleefully taking every opportunity to stick me with their pins.

No love lost here then. As she stabs me with the last pin, she retreats quickly, and silently, back into the complex.

Now it's my turn. I walk back to my cell, listening to the click-clack of my heels and feeling the way they pinch uncomfortably tight onto my feet. All I can think, all I've got left to think is that my ten years were for nothing. Ten years doing time in prison cell 561, Complex 13, District 2. And it was all for this.

I shake myself. The games could be a way out, couldn't they? If only I could see who my eventual opponents are.

I round the corner, and sit myself squarely in the front of my cell, glaring angrily at the floor. I don't want to be a tribute. But I don't want to be a whore either.

Gale Hawthorne stands outside now, uniform freshly pressed and starched, but still smelling for all the dry cleaning that is done, like smoke and silver. His grey eyes mock me. Tribute, or traitor? Close to death, or next to dead?

A memory strikes me then, hazy and rose-tinted through years of forgetfulness and lack of use. But a memory it is, one of my father. A man of few words and even fewer admonishments. It makes me smile.

I look up, and meet his eyes. Grey on grey. I have my answer. I stand up, and he opens the cell door. I listen to it hiss and wheeze as it disengages for the last time, before I take his hand in mine.

"I would rather die on my feet than live on my knees."


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER II

The sky is a muted, but pleasant, pale pearl grey. In places, the sun peeks through, dappling the steel and glass heart of District 2. It has certainly changed since I saw it last.

The Justice building, the building I so unceremoniously threw myself off of, is gone. Where marble and glass once entwined, curving and arcing up into a lateral cornucopia, there is what can only described as a shanty town. A bundle of poorly constructed, badly thought out brick and concrete terraces that tear into the pleasant sky. Buildings that would certainly have stood out in my District 2 city centre.

Sadly, my District 2 is gone. In its place is something that would have my father turning in his makeshift grave. The working class, the poor, the proletariat that my dear uncle so championed now have only less squalor to aspire to.

The majority of the city seems to have been overrun by the terraces, by communal housing, by square blocks of something that jut rudely out of the pavement and up into the air, declaring so very insolently the presence of the great State of Panem in District 2. The marble and glass, the steel and silver, has gone. Where once the light danced off of the buildings, illuminating the streets with subtle golds and roses, it now hits the buildings, and stays there.

I try to keep my head down as I am marched alongside the barricade. Silence. Silence greets me from the stands. What it means though, I can't tell. Temptation beckons, pulling at the muscles taut in my neck, and I snatch a glimpse upwards.

People have lined the street, the long route to the front of the new Justice building, a concrete parade. Their faces are tired, worn and dirty. Where once the ridiculously wealthy cheered and betted frivolously on the survival of tributes, grinning with empty-headed glee behind their painted faces and electric blue and gold wigs, now are the impoverished. The stand in huddles, clusters of wide-eyed men and women who scarcely have the strength to so much as whisper about the fate of the likes of me. They breathe out spirals of crisp white steam, shivering in the cold, northern autumn. The same bitter autumn air that is beginning to raise goose pimples on my own arms.

And, of course, in the background, is the Nut. Or rather, what was the Nut. In the ten years I've been imprisoned, the Nut hasn't fared much better. Where the rebels' explosives collapsed the internal structure, the outer slopes have collapsed inwards, snow has begun to settle on spires of metal where the framework used to hold an entire mountain in place. I can only assume it was too expensive to replace.

I feel Hawthorne's hand tighten on my arm. Then I hear it, spreading through the gathered masses like wildfire. I force my head back down again, but the damage has been done.

_"Thrice..._

_...The Hound's daughter..._

_Who would've guessed it, alive?"_

Not for much longer.

I ascend the crude steel steps onto the podium, and sit myself in the seat near to the leftmost battered glass reaping ball of the two that have taken centre stage. The seat wedged between a glowering Marilla Hesse and a somewhat put off looking Gale Hawthorne.

I suppress a small smirk. The bastard deserves it. He can have every other State traitor, but if he still thinks he can bribe the daughter of the Hound, he has another thing coming.

For 40 years my father faithfully served the Capitol. His loyalty never once wavered, his belief in its security was unquestioned. Even as the rebels took District after District, even as the rebels marched on the Nut he held the steadfast belief that the Capitol would not, could not lose. I wonder often if he still thought that when he crawled out from under the rubble and into the barrel of a gun.

A woman ascends to the stage. She looks dishevelled, her deep fuchsia wig is slightly askew, her make-up is slightly smudged, in particular around her lips. I get the distinct sensation that I don't want to know what she's been up to.

She totters, wobbling precariously in her too high heels as she approaches the microphone. A bitter thought strikes me as the anthem strikes up. Not our anthem, not that of the Capitol, but supposedly the one of the people. It sounds more like the high, tinny whining of some backdoor bar's music system to me.

But the thought doesn't leave me, it persists, burying its way into my mind. All this pomp, all this ceremony, of course. 22 tributes, troublemakers and children of the old regime – we're here to be made an example of. Just as, little over 10 years ago, we gathered the old champions to be made an example of. We failed. I can only hope that a change of regime hasn't damaged that track record.

If I had been here 11 years ago, I would've stood in the square, not that there would've been any need. In District 2, we always knew who was going to volunteer. If we were lucky, 5 or even 6 tributes would compete to be chosen for the honour of entering the games, just as Cato and Clove had done. Now, all the old tributes are dead. They didn't take overly kindly to the regime change.

We were famous for our Careers, or infamous. They would train for years in the mountains and rough hills to toughen up. For us, a Career was someone to admire, even to aspire to. Not that I was allowed to be one. And even if standard rules were followed, I wouldn't be in the square waiting for my name to be picked out. My father made that one absolutely certain.

No son or daughter of his was going to even think about competing in the games, and, as the Hound, and as our father, he always got his way.

Until now. Now, he's not there to stand up and declare me ineligible for the right to compete in the games. If anything, my very relation to him is the reason I'm sitting here. That, and my stubborn refusal of Hawthorne's advances.

The people are huddled, staring at us blankly, their eyes vacant of any expression. It's disconcerting. Maybe, if they'd hurled insults, if they'd screamed and shouted and heckled us with anger in their faces, it would've been okay. Well, tolerable, and certainly better than our silent reception.

As the video beams up onto the screens, I'm surprised, and, quite frankly, disappointed. It's the same video I've seen before, I've heard time after time. Except this time, there's First General Secretary Paylor announcing it instead of President Snow. Of course she adds on the end about the fall of the Capitol, the rise of the Mockingjay and the great, illustrious State of Panem. A picture of Katniss Everdeen beams onto the screens, holding her bow aloft, triumphant.

It's funny how much resentment I have for someone I scarcely know. Paylor finishes off her speech with a short explanation of how we are gathered here, to witness the effective death sentences of all but one.

Then the screen fades out to the seal of Panem, an eagle clutching a branch of wheat in one claw, a hammer in the other, against a banner of red and a single gold star at the top. About this time, they used to read out the names of all the old champions, which would've been more than a few. Not anymore.

The woman introduces herself as our temporary escort, Amelia Silverglass, a surname that almost distinctively brands her as one of the middle classes. And proceeds to introduce everyone on the stage, which is a fairly long list, everyone from me, to Hesse, to twelve year old Molly Initia, who is still clutching a posy of flowers she was given like a lifeline.

Their names aren't in it though. And if they are, it's one of theirs versus sixty of mine. She teeters towards over to the male reaping ball, and draws out a name.

"The male tribute is, Alvius Simmen!"

A small boy stands up in jerky, sporadic movements. A smile, twitches across his face. And I thank God. He's hardly a threat, instead, he's a skinny, wiry runt with a shock of blonde hair and startled blue eyes.

My brain scarcely has the time to decipher the manic, maddening grin on Alvius' face though, before he's wheeled off by a handful of 'peacekeepers' in white jackets to the echo of an empty applause.

The woman turns back to the female reaping ball. My reaping ball.

She dips her hands in the glass ball and fishes around. Her pale, delicate fingers grasp onto a thin slip of paper. I can already see my name printed onto it in square, uniform black lettering. The slip disappears through her fingers, and my breath catches in my throat. Her long, angular, bubblegum pink nails pinch onto another. It's my name, again. It slips through her fingers, again.

"Whoopsie!" She mutters, her voice low and hard. Adrenaline is coursing through my veins. I know the name that's on the slip is exactly the same as the two before, my name. I have zero chance of escaping this unscathed. My fears bolster my courage. I give an exaggerated eye roll, and stand up.

"I volunteer myself as District 2's female tribute for the 76th Hunger Games!"


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER III

_Katniss Everdeen_

She clings onto the chair, her eyes squeezed firmly shut against her nightmares as she buries her fingernails ever further into the wooden arm of the rocking chair. But it doesn't alleviate the horrors that she sees.

There's a soft knock at the door, and the images tighten their grip on her mind. Prim, dying in front of her eyes. The Arenas. Rue. Peeta. Trackerjackers. The Morphlings. Coin. Snow, coughing his life out as he reminds her how very unscrupulous people can be.

And then they release her. She jerks her head forward, and her eyes fly open to the warm, pleasant wood and brick of reality. Adrenaline still renders her stiff. She can taste her fear on the inside of her mouth. The knock comes again, soft and insistent this time.

She stands up awkwardly, relinquishing her death grip on the arms of the rocking chair, where years of blind panic have ingrained the sharp, hard dents of her nails. Her heart is still pounding in her mouth, the after effects of her midmorning nightmare still racing its way round her body. She rests her hand on the brass doorknob, desperately trying to wrestle her thoughts under control.

It's Peeta. In his arms, Peony dozes lightly, her dark hair covering her face. Roark, on the other hand, is hanging off of his father's shirt cuff.

"P...Peeta, honey." Her voice stammers as all of the adrenaline built up in her body drains all at once. He smiles at her, his soft blue eyes reflecting the grey of her own.

"Roark, what did find today then?"

The boy's nervous grey eyes light up with joy as he proudly holds up a bunch of tuber roots and soft stems. He reminds her of Peeta, with his gentle, shy manner and kind heart.

"Katnisses!" He smiles broadly at her.

"And Peony?"

"She fell asleep picking daisies." He rolls his eyes. She laughs, and moves aside. They enter the house in a haphazard fashion, showering dirt and fresh black soil as they go.

Since its demolition by the Capitol, District 12 has become a place of medicine, and medicinal herbs. Most days, she and Peeta take them out to the meadow, to find herbs and plant shoots. Today, however, the nightmares took precedence.

She moves into the kitchen, and starts to assemble a quick lunch. A thought still troubles her. When they broke the ground for the factory, when they planted row upon row of allotments and herb gardens, they exposed something else. A mine shaft, situated at the westernmost end of the meadow. It is boarded up, of course, but ten years of wear and tear have rotted the wood, have weakened the barricade. And so she worries, worries what will happen if the children find it, what will happen if they peel back the mouldering wood, what will happen if they lean forward, and fall into the gaping black hole of the mine.

There's another rap at the door. A sharp, authoritative rap of knuckles on the pine wood door. She jolts forward, and the knife bites from the bread into her skin. A bead of blood wells on her forefinger, she ignores it, wiping her hands casually on her apron, before heading back to the front door.

Peeta has opened it, and now stands in the doorway, talking in hushed tones to a man in a black uniform. He spots Katniss, and smiles unpleasantly.

"Ah! Katniss!" His voice is like gravel, he extends a hand to shake. "It is truly an honour to meet you, Miss Everdeen, or..." He glances between her and Peeta.

"Mrs Mellark." She corrects him. "And you are?"

"Soldier Amberley. I apologise for my lateness, Mockingjay, but I'm afraid that..."

"What lateness?"

"Ah, you see, Mockingjay, the Great State of Panem has had some difficulties of late, not, of course, with District 12, but some of the more central districts have had trouble adjusting to the regime changes. And... We have been forced to make some very difficult decisions."

Katniss stiffens, Peeta wraps his arm around her, pulling her closer.

"What decisions?"

"To have another Hunger Games."

She freezes, her heart sinks. No. Anything but that. Please, please someone tell her that he didn't just say that. Another Hunger Games, another round of children dying. And then the memories hit her, wave after wave.

The silver parachutes raining down on the children, on Prim. Her, voting for another Hunger Games, a little over ten years ago. And now there was going to be another one.

"W...What do you want me to do."

"We want you to be a mentor, District 2 is open."

District 2, she still has the same memories of District 2. Of being shot.

"Alright."

"I'll meet you at the station at ten sharp in that case."

She watches his retreating back, and realises that she is shaking.

"Katniss, you don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Might edit later**

CHAPTER IV

After my impromptu revelation, the crowd had been in uproar. Whispers and shouting had burst through the crowds like wildfire.

They had been confused, surprised, disturbed. To cheer, or not to cheer? They'd settled for muttering unheard respect for the daughter of their oppressor. And now, here I was. The men who are now 'peacekeepers' dragged me here. They'd locked me in, I'd seen that much. Locked me in the Mayor, excuse me, the 'Commissar's' office. And now I was waiting, waiting for the train to pull up outside Madison Station as it used to every year.

Except this time, I wasn't going to be standing around watching it leave. I settled for tracing non-existent patterns on the ceilings, on the walls, admiring, and despairing, of the cold utilitarian architecture the 'Revolution' had brought with it.

I was still waiting for my escort when I hear an argument outside. Not that it sounds much like an argument. More like a small scuffle, the tongue-less clucking of an Avox, the rustle of paperwork and the sound of the key turning in the lock. The door softly creaks open.

Then in comes Nasia. She glares at me, but an apologetic, appreciative glint has snuck into her mocking brown eyes. She sits opposite, smoothing out her black skirt. Avoxes are becoming rarer. They're seen as old fashioned, reminders of what the Capitol 'subjugated' the people to. Not, that it stops the Commissars from having any.

As far as I know, or rather, as far as I've seen, there's at least 20 running around at Hawthorne's beck and call. 6 of whom had black eyes, one of whom broke a shin, two of whom lost teeth and one of whom lost her hand in an 'accident' involving a meat blender. Now I come to think of it, it seems rather obvious that I should be the one to compete in Panem's games. After all, I've probably cost them the most in upkeep.

A worried look fixes itself on Nasia's face. She hands something across the void between us. It's a letter, written on rough, cheap paper and that smells like cheap perfume and pot rouge. It has the seal of Panem at the top, and underneath, the seal of District 2. Hammer, chisel, stone, and eye. We quarry, we carve, we see. The motto still lingers beneath it in dull grey ink.

_Nos Fossicia, nos scindendi, nos videmus._

This is from Hawthorne's office. My father's former office. I raise an eyebrow at her. She nods at it urgently.

I unfurl it, smoothing out the worst of the creases out of old habit. There it is, her handwriting. Her beautiful copperplate handwriting. The handwriting that I used to envy, the reason I used to make her write down on everything that we ever worked together on; the handwriting of Nasia Ghaffar, my old best friend, and the daughter of the Mayor.

_Get out of here._

I glance up at her, and she nods hurridly. I stand up rapidly, and give her a quick embrace. There's a sharp knock at the door, we freeze, and separate as fast as we can. There's a discussion, something light-hearted, and low, masculine laughter, including the laughter of Gale Hawthorne.

The key turns in the lock again, and the door is roughly shoved aside. I watch Nasia's pupils dilate, her eyes widen with fear. And suddenly I'm terrified myself. A spasm, a shudder runs through me. My heart beats a little faster, my breathing becomes a little shallower.

Gale Hawthorne strides in, his grey-green uniform freshly pressed. His grey eyes cold, hard, uncompromising. Colder, harder, more uncompromising.

"Out." Nasia scuttles out of his way. But not before a final, desperate glance of warning.

"What do you want, Hawthorne?" It's hard to keep up the facade. It's hard not to let my voice tremble, my body shake, my heart pound uncomfortably loud. Sudden, sharp, acrid recognition clicks in my mind of his look. I know where I've seen it before.

_Shit._

His grey eyes burn with an uncomfortable heat. He takes a step forward, then another. Closing the distance between us.

"You know what."

_Why now?_

There's no longer an easy option, a way out. Except... I glance towards the window.

_Damn it._

It's shut, locked no doubt. There's no where left to run. I turn.

_What the fuck am I supposed to do?_

He grabs me by the back of my neck. His hand crushing me forward. I wriggle, I squirm, but he only grabs harder; his body is crushing against me now, breath is squeezed out of my lungs. My heart pounds in my throat. Panic has seized me, and the son-of-a-bitch is refusing to let go.

He presses his lips to mine. I wonder if he's aware he's practically suffocating me. They're overwhelming, pressing forcefully against my own. For a split second, tears threaten to spill. Then I remember.

I'm the daughter of the Hound, the Devil of District 2, the pain in Panem's ass. And if he thinks he can have me like some dewy-eyed secretary, well...

He's wrong. He's very, very wrong.

I place my palm on his chest, and push. He refuses to move. I just push harder, shoving every last ounce of hatred I can muster into him. He staggers back slightly. A dark humour grips him, he rubs his hand along his mouth and grins sadistically.

"There's no way out of this Thrice. You're mine, regardless of the Games. You thought that was your way out? Well... Better luck next time." His voice is low, scarcely above a growl, low and threatening and seductive.

"No, just, wait." I pause to catch my breath, which comes in startled snatches. Thank God he's stopped though. Now he just stands, watching, waiting, smug smile on his face, thinking he knows that there's no way out for me. Thinking I'm going to let him have me for nothing, thinking, daring to think, that there's nothing I can do, that he is the all powerful, all screwing Gale Hawthorne. Well I guess I'm just going to have to be the one that got away.

Adrenaline pounds. My body moves spasmodically, in sudden jerky movements I try to contain. I lower my gaze, I try my best to make my breathing sound more husky and less desperately panicked. It seems to work. His grin broadens.

_Son of a bitch._

He trails his hand down to frame my cheek, his index finger feathers my lip. Leaving the left side of his face unguarded. I glance up from under my eyelashes, and can't help smiling myself.

_Surprise._

My fist connects with the face. There's a sickening, satisfying crunch as it sinks into his jawbone. He slumps backwards, shocked. I can't help myself now, anger wells up, uncontrolled, rage flares, my skin burns. I want to scream, I want to shout, I settle for pounding Hawthorne's pretty little face instead.

He, he thought wrong. He thought that the daughter of the Hound was defenceless! A fragile, fucking, butterfly! He thought the Hound never taught his daughter a trick or two? There's a reason they put me in solitary confinement! And it wasn't because I was connected.

10 years. I feel the way he sinks further into unconsciousness with every hit, a rush of gratification to my senses.

_Stop!_

I freeze. Of course. There's a banging at the door. Shouting, in harsh, fevered cries of the men who now call themselves 'peacekeepers'.

"Open the door!"

Hysteria bubbles out of my throat. I can't, Hawthorne locked it. The same Hawthorne whose blood now stems in a steady trickle from his mouth and nose. I notice I bloody blob of white, and tug at it gently. A tooth. A maniacal grin spreads across my face. A tooth, something from my home District, nothing that can be used as a weapon, just a sweet, little reminder of what I've left behind.

Except that I'm not going anymore. I'm not going to play in their games. They can find themselves some other enemy of the State. I slip the tooth into my inside pocket.

I lash out, and force my leg through the window, ignoring the pain that flares up my leg as glass and steel bite into flesh and bone. I clamber out onto the ledge.

Sun is beginning to set. The ever closer flashes of red and gold light herald the train as it speeds along its magnetic track. District 2, on the other hand, is illuminated by the dappled gold and red of the setting sun, the peach flush that rests on the houses, the Clementine wash that spreads across the mountainsides.

Columns of grey-white smoke rise out of chimneys, birds take off in sporadic clusters as the train signals its arrival and the water of the river is still, silently reflecting the dying October sun. In other words, it's the perfect day for a suicide.

They're behind me now, shouting in words I don't care enough about to decipher. This is my time. I'm going to do this my way. And they can take that, and they can shove it up their...


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Thanks for the lovely reviews! You make my day :-)**

CHAPTER V

I come to to the whirr of the maglev train, to the soft metallic hum as it continues its journey, west to east, north to south, District to District, starting at 1 and ending with 12, or these days, ending at 11. The sun is strong, almost oppressive with midday heat and vigour, and certainly characteristic of Districts 9 to 11, which dominate the southern regions and have hot, arid weather systems.

Which also means that I've been out for the count for at least a week. My head still feels groggy, my limbs protest from stupor and lack of use. Whatever sedative they used, it was damn strong stuff. Which brings me to my second sane thought, I failed. I'm still alive, my limbs still complain about working, my brain still creaks under the pressure of having to rationalise the fact that I'm liable to die, very horribly, very soon, and my heart still pounds with week old adrenaline.

Which reminds me of my third sane thought of the day. I check myself over. No bruises, no marks, no unexpected pains. I don't _feel _any different. Which hopefully, fingers crossed, means Hawthorne got the picture after I took my vengeance on his face.

I haul myself out from under the warmth of the covers, and stretch myself out in the yellow gold sunlight that streams into my room from an impossibly small window. Obviously they decided that I couldn't be trusted with a window big enough to stick my head out of.

I shower, letting the warm water scour the reminder of the reaping day from my skin. The towels are still textbook fluffy, the suites still so casually opulent. To let such a thing as the Tribute train go to waste for the sake of an ideology, now that _would _be criminal. Especially when they could use it instead to be so wonderfully ironic and damn hypocritical.

They've left me old clothes though, washed, ironed and starched, and surprisingly free of anything sharp. It seems as though my wayward suicide attempt has backfired spectacularly. Now they're actually _trying _to keep me alive.

The train purrs, whistling softly as it glides to a stop. I peer out of my soap box window. Cinarri Station, which would make it, District 9? Or 10? The sun is still oppressive, illuminating distant fields of green and gold. In them, long stalks of wheat, mostly barley, partially rye, sway in the slight breeze that drifts eastwards from District 11. Which would make it District 9.

I should know that, I should've remembered it. 10 years, especially now, doesn't seem that long, not long enough to make me illegible for the reaping anyway. I was taught, alongside Qamra and Nasia and Sierra, about each of the Districts. I was taught by my tutors, by my father, about their history, their economy, their weaknesses. It was essential, after all, it was between me, Fletch and Morty who followed Dad into Peacekeeping.

My heart stirs a little. They're still out there, somewhere. At least, I hope that they're still out there. I hope they know, I hope they're safe, I hope they haven't done anything stupid. Fletch would be 20 now, a man, and Morty would have just turned 13. Flavius and Mortimer Thrice, the eldest, and the youngest, and the only sons of the Hound. 10 years I haven't seen them for, and 10 years, is still a long time. Just not quite long enough.

There's shouting, the mixed cries of joy and exasperation as the District 9 tributes. I narrow my eyes against the sunlight and scour the scene outside of my poky window.

The girl, she looks dangerous. She walks with a fluid, confident gait; not like someone who has trained for this sort of event, but someone who knows how to deal with it nonetheless. Her shiny black hair is pulled back in a sharp ponytail against the dark ochre of her skin. She grins, her body glistening with sweat from the heat, in a prison outfit. Enemies of the State. Which would make her either a rebel or a criminal.

The boy, following her in stumbling footsteps, on the other hand, looks scarcely able to harm a fly, let alone a another person. He holds himself hesitantly, his eyes constantly scanning the crowds for some source of relief. His skin is slightly lighter, his hair a dark brown in contrast to her blue-black, and he's wearing almost the exact same clothes that he wore to my 7th birthday party. Except that now they're creased and actually fit him for a change.

Chen Wei.

The only son of District 9's mayor, and also the most soft-hearted person in Panem. There really is no God as far as we're concerned.

They board the train, her slipping in with ease, him with haphazard shuffling. And then we leave, the train shakes slightly, vibrates, before lifting off of the dirt and continuing back along its route to the other Districts.

I realise, after a short while, that no one's coming for me, and that if I want to eat at some point today, I'm going to have to walk for it. My stomach growls in affirmation. They've fed me, kept me while I've been in my drug induced daze, or at least someone has, but now I'm awake, I'm craving solid food.

I make my way down the panelled corridors, ricocheting as the train rockets onwards towards Districts 10 and 11. But not 12. Even after 20 years of service, the Capitol never got around to changing the trains, to making the ride any smoother or easier on the ribs. I guess they weren't exactly bothered about tributes surviving the journey. And it seems that Panem is displaying the exact same reluctance.

As I finally stagger into our dining room, it becomes apparent that everyone else has had supper; all except two. Silverglass has finished, and is now filing her nails in a semi-bored fashion next to a glass of wine, while Alvius is still sitting in front of his empty plate, eying it with suspicion.

Both look up as I enter.

"Nice to see you've finally got round to eating with us." Her voice is sarcastic. Alvius just nods energetically.

I ignore them both, and set myself behind an empty plate which I pile with food. Over roast beef, and between mouthfuls, I glance over Alvius.

I was wrong. I do know him. He's the son of the Quarry master, who was no doubt considered overly bourgeois and deposed by some overzealous rebels. Who then decided that his shock of a son was too much of a shock to be allowed out of the State prisons.

He frowns at the spare plate, and then back at me, his blue white eyes never stopping long enough to focus on one thing. And then I realise, me and the shock are thinking the exact same thing.

_'Whose plate is that?'_

Whoever it is, they don't arrive, and the meal is swiftly taken away by an Avox as Amelia switches on the screens to show the Reapings.

I recognise more than a few. The male tribute from District 1 is a factory owners son, not quite a career, but as good as. I went to school with his female counterpart, a lithe, attractive young girl, Honey. Iveco is the surname of the former Mayor of District 7, and I can only assume that it's his son. Of course, there's Chen Wei in District 9, but, other than that, it's largely rebels and criminals.

Including, of course, the currently infamous District 5. My jaw practically drops open as we watch the Reaping.

The boy walks through the crowds of his age group, calmly, quietly, amongst the furore and confusion, and gets up on the stage. He's deathly pale, his hair brown-black and smothered in the soot that coats District 5.

"I, Chough Renault, volunteer as the male tribute for District 5."

Chough Renault. Renault. The Renaults, former owners and workers of Olsmarsh, Stockwell and Daromsk power stations. Former rebels for Panem, turned rebels for their own freedom. Single handedly the biggest threat to Panem's State security, and one of them is turning himself over like a lamb for the slaughter?

I can scarcely believe my eyes and ears. I'm still reeling as they cut to the anthem, and the two stereo-typically airheaded presenters make comments and score each of the contestants so far. I, by all accounts, made a decent impression. I got marked 6 out of 10 and liable to die by trackerjackers. Lovely. At least it was better than Alvius, who got a 3, and was voted most likely to get killed just after the bloodbath.

As the days pass, we develop a small regime. We wash, we eat, we retreat, we eat, we retreat, we wash, we eat, we watch the tributes, we sleep. Then we start again. The tributes for 10 are both criminals, with hard faces and hard eyes, while 11 have sly looks behind their warm smiles. Nothing special, nothing of note.

Apart from the fact that we don't turn around when we reach District 11. We continue, speeding along the patched up track to District 12. I want to ask why. I do. Silverglass just brushes me off and gives a low, derisive laugh at my 'ignorance'.

I remind her that I was unconscious for the first week of our journey.

"Look, we're going to pick up your mentor, got it?" Oh. Of course. After the revolution, anyone who could help us from District 2 was either killed, or 're-educated'. They certainly weren't in a fit shape to help us.

As we pull up outside the station, my nerves start to constrict my chest. I hope, I pray that we have a decent mentor, someone that I can, at the very least, get on with.

There's a knock, and I listen to the shuffle of someone entering the carriage, the mutter of two female voices, Silverglass, and our mentor. I slip out of my rooms, and head towards the dining cabin, the source of the noise.

Alvius is already there, dumbstruck at something. I shake my head at him.

"Hello, I'm..."

Katniss Everdeen. Our mentor is Katniss Everdeen.


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER VI

My mind is still reeling. She stands there, a little over a foot away from me. The Mockingjay. The girl on fire. The person at least half responsible for my life as it currently stands.

And she looks surprisingly innocent.

Her skin is the standard, dark olive of the Seam of the former District 12, her hair is long, straight and black, pinned back in a makeshift bun from which thin, straggly strands are now trying to escape. Even her eyes, the almost iconic, fierce grey eyes from the propaganda posters, the eyes that dominated the television and enthralled the Capitol not so long ago, are faded, tired, worn with stress and strain.

But they're still the same, I remind myself. She's still the same. She's still the one who threw her lot along with the rebellion, the one who faced their thoughts and ideas, spear-headed their manoeuvres. She's still the same fiery eyed archer my uncle became enamoured enough with to abandon us.

"You, you're Katniss Everdeen." It's pathetic, and even Silverglass rolls her eyes at me.

"And your mentor..."

"Kyria Thrice." I'm surprised that her eyes don't widen in recognition, that not a single sound of surprise leaves her mouth. But then, she was from 12, as far removed as humanely possible from the world of District 2, and the world of my father.

_"Nos videmus? Try vide."_

I remember him telling me that, dry smile and wry glint in his blue-grey eyes.

_Not we see, but I see._

He may have been the Head of all the Peacekeepers, but seeing as most people rarely if ever ventured outside their own District, they would've never seen him, let alone heard of him. Unless, of course, the District had been one of the first to rebel.

"Thrice. Thrice and Simmen. So I'm supposed to give you advice." She looks uncertain, hesitant, quite unsure of what to do. I realise that we're all staring at her, me and Silverglass and shock, all expecting her to do something, anything.

"Well, what are your strengths?"

One of them is not wrestling her to the floor and exacting my revenge for 10 years of imprisonment right this second, while the other, the other usefulness is yet to be determined.

Shock flops down onto the recliner, his blue eyes narrowing a little, focusing and unfocusing as he thinks about something. Silverglass glares pointedly at me, expecting me to fill the awkward silence that is carving between us, and asap.

"Knives." I state bluntly.

"You can handle throwing knives?"

"No. Kitchen knives." As every Avox after my third found out. After all my third was the one who taught me.

He was an ex-peacekeeper, someone they really shouldn't have let anywhere near our compound, let alone me. Savos, preferred to be known as Sam, with brilliant ginger hair and a brilliant mind. Like the others, he knew me by association, but respected me by actions. Which largely involved me ignoring him every time he decided to take his boredom out on me.

I had woken one morning, hot and sticky from the late-summer humidity, to the soft sudden 'thud' of the knives on wood. I watched him from dawn until lunch, bedding each knife in the same exact spot, before retrieving it, and aiming again. I reckon he only spent around 15 seconds average on each shot, and they all hit the exact same place, five paces from my bedroom door.

I persuaded him to teach me, bribing him with biscuits and snippets of information I had memorised from my days as his boss's daughter. We grew close. I was young though, still naive. Nothing happened between us, nothing serious, nothing more than silent invitations that neither of us accepted. But it still hurt me the night he disappeared.

Hawthorne had arrived the following morning to break the news. Savos Abalone had set fire to the western wing of Hawthorne's office, and subsequently been shot.

Which is perhaps the reason I gave my later Avoxes such a wary eye, and the occasional ill-treatment that would have them replaced.

The Mockingjay has turned her attentions back to shock, who answers every questions with a torrent of scarcely distinguishable words and long, sharp shudders. He can run apparently, he's quick on his feet, so he says, agile. But just like me, he doesn't say why. Which piques my curiosity.

But before I can so much as interrogate him, Silverglass steers the conversation to different waters.

"You reckon there's any hope for them?"

I'm sincerely glad I'm not the only one taken aback by her frankness. And I hastily excuse myself. I have a sinking feeling that this isn't going to be one of the last times someone discusses how likely I am to die in the upcoming weeks.

Instead, I comfort myself by falling into the bed, and convincing myself that while I'm here, nobody can hurt me. It doesn't work. I'm not even certain why I do it anymore. It hasn't worked in a long time. I lost faith in four walls long before now. I curl up, and will the orange-gold evening glow as we roll back towards the Capitol to fade, even just slightly, and let me go to sleep in peace.

I'm awake before dawn. Awoken by the sharp rap of knuckles on every door, on every panel, and the sound of Silverglass hollering in her best market voice over the din of the train coming to a rest at the station.

"Up! Get up, now!"

I haul on my clothes of yesterday, and the entire week and a bit prior to that, thankful that it hasn't stained, yet feeling the dirtiest I've felt in a long while. As I stagger out into the corridor, Amelia gives me in impromptu shove up the back, causing me to collapse into shock, who is going nowhere in a hurry.

"Move it! Move it!" She hisses as she drags me up off shock. "They're registering you, now!" Now? Did it have to be now? Now is possibly the worst time they could've picked to register us. Couldn't they have done it later?

Everyone else feels the same, as they push, shove and heave us off the train in a somewhat organised jumble. We're ordered into District order, 1 to 11, male, then female. I jostle and barge, using shock as a human shield until we reach our allocated places near the front of the queue. Prompting a filthy look from District 3's two tributes, who look startlingly similar. Until I remember, they're the twins, with twin looks of distaste on their faces.

But I'm not in the mood for apologising, certainly not when we're being driven past a man with less bright blue, yet still over-optimistically curly hair. He has a rather grim look of enjoyment on his face as his fat fingers scrawl names and numbers on a sheet, taking fingerprints, blood samples and brief oral histories.

I sit down in front of him, and meet his blue eyes straight on. Showdown. He pales as he notices it, attempting to cover up his nerves.

"Hello Uncle."


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER VII

Plutarch Heavensbee isn't my uncle by blood, but by marriage. He married my rather dopey mother's equally dopey sister, Elektra. But in complete contrast to my aunt, he's clever, sly, cunning, conniving, a traitor.

A traitor with a mass of pale blue curls; hard, self-assured blue eyes; a tendency towards the finer things in life and a round, pleasant face that is getting paler by the moment.

He doesn't ask my name, my date of birth, my back story – that much he already knows. Instead he feigns clearing his throat and leans across the table towards me, throwing a quick glance around as if to see if anyone is listening. We all are.

"Sorry."

Sorry! My mind is in a state of disbelief. Sorry! He drags me out of prison and into the games and all he has to say for himself is sorry! A furious need to do something drastic sows itself in the pit of my stomach. A spasm runs down my arms. I hear a metallic clunk behind me, and realise that if I so much as move a muscle towards my treacherous uncle's plump neck I'll be out for the count for the majority of the training.

I stand up as if to leave.

"Wait." I turn back, and turn the full force of my glare onto him. "I haven't finished yet. Please, sit back down."

I silently refuse his offer, and instead rest my palms on the table and lean forward, obscuring any view the guards have of our exchange. I can hear them stiffen in protest, but Plutarch waves away their concerns, and turns his eyes back to my admission slip.

"Reason?"

For what? Then I realise, he means the reason I have for being here.

"Guess." I'm not going to make any of this easy for him, and certainly not when he's attempting to hide himself in his paperwork.

"Please, Kyria. Make this easy on me."

"Make what easy? Make putting your own niece in a death trap easy? Make signing her death warrant easy?" Sarcasm burns through my words along with indignation, sheer fury at his audacity.

"Kyria, I don't have a choice."

"And neither did I."

"Please." The word seems slightly jarring in my ears, almost unnatural. Realisation is slow to come, along with the frown spreading across my face, then it does. He rarely, if ever, says please. He's pleading, almost begging, his voice sinking, getting lower decibel by decibel as he tries to conceal his panic and exasperation. But from who?

A rustle, and the quick movement of fabric catches my attention out of the corner of my eye. Oh. Of course. The guards.

They'll repeat every indiscretion, the slightest misdemeanour to his superiors, and judging from their hard, detached stance from the proceedings, I highly doubt that they're the kind of people that can be bribed easily, if at all.

I sit back down.

He may be a traitor, he may be a coward, he might even be to date the worst uncle since Rodrigo Borgia; but, he's still my uncle, and he's still completely vulnerable to any of the State's whims.

"I'm here because I'm Kyria Thrice, daughter of Maximus Thrice, head Peacekeeper and head of Security, also known as the Hound, and possibly because I'm the granddaughter of Darius Thrice, known as the Wolf, original enforcer of the Hunger Games and also head Peacekeeper."

He jots it down quickly, in a series of short sharp stabs at the paper.

"Token?"

I hadn't thought of that. I reach inside the suit, rifling through the pockets and my fingers brush against something firm and smooth. I freeze. How did that get there?

I take it out, and let it reflect the bright electrics of the desk lamp. It's Gale Hawthorne's tooth.

"If you don't mind me asking, what exactly is it, and, who's exactly is it?"

"It's Gale Hawthorne's, Gale Hawthorne's tooth."

"You know the rules, nothing to be taken in the arena which can be used as a weapon or a, er, symbol." He glances nervously at the shard of enamel I'm clutching protectively in my left hand.

I roll my eyes. "Very symbolic."

"Kyria, I'm being serious, if Paylor gets wind of this, this thing getting into the arena..." He gulps profusely.

"I'm sure Hawthorne's already informed her." I cut across his heavy breathing. "And anyway," I lower my voice to scarcely above a whisper. "It's not like anyone has to know."

He looks hesitant for a moment, pensive, and then jots something illegible down on my form and glowers reluctantly at me. "Fine, but don't think I'm giving you any more favours just because you're my niece."

I suppress a small laugh. His favour is the smallest, least meaningful thing he could've granted me, but it still means something. It's still a small, personal victory. I lean across the table and plant a kiss on his cheek. The guards make a noise of protest and start towards me. I jerk back and laugh, walking off towards where shock and the two District one tributes are waiting.

The twins behind are glaring at me with a mixture of confusion and annoyance. But I'm past caring, it's not like we're exactly going to become best of friends in the short week before we're sent out to kill each other.

It takes a little over an hour for all of us to be registered, my uncle finally snapping his little green leather-bound notebook shut and mumbling some gruff orders to the two guards, who begin to advance on our little group with stony faces and the intent of sharks in a swimming pool.

I pull shock towards me, not out of affection, but out of the morbid fear that if I let him wander off he will most likely get himself shot.

"In order please."

"Would that be height order, or age order?" A gravelly voice pipes up from near the back of our mass, steeped with sarcasm. I turn to catch a glimpse of the voice, as does everyone else.

It's the other tribute from District 9, the one with the fluid gait and the prison outfit, the one who I now know to be a prolific thief and one time arsonist.

The guards ignore her. "In order please."

I oblige, pulling in behind the District 1 tributes and dragging shock with me. The rest follow suit, murmuring and grumbling their discontent as the guards begin to push, pull and shove us into the required positions.

I'm next to shock, behind Honey and in front of the female twin from District 3, who, from what I heard of their interrogation, is called Aycee. The guards flank us, forcing us into a narrow line between them.

"W...What's going?"

It's the only coherent thing I've ever heard him say. I blink in mild disbelief as he asks the question again, in a low, jerky voice that seems to change octaves as it changes syllables.

"I don't know." I honestly don't, they're beginning to move forward now, forcing the rows of us to stumble and collide with each other as we move inexorably and invariably closer and closer towards a set of large, ostentatious wooden doors that lead out of the station building.

Another set of guards pull them open, and we're greeted to the glare of sunlight, the flash of camera bulbs, and the booing and cheering, the shouting and jeering, of at least half of the Capitol's citizens.

My resolve leaves me, my nerves bundle together like cable wires in my stomach, twisting and knotting together my insides, panic settles at the forefront of my mind. I go to turn, to move, to escape from the nightmarish vision that we're being pushed towards, but the rows just keep pushing forwards in slow, sporadic movements.

I glance across at shock, and my willpower starts to return. Shock looks worse than me, he looks beyond terrified, beyond feeling anything but the alarm that is building up in his body until he's practically locked with fear. A shock wave wracks him, and pity overwhelms my panic.

I reach across and grab his hand. He glances across at me, startled. I shake my head, exasperated, as we move into the blinding light.

"Look, we're in this together."

At least for the moment.


End file.
